


Better Than a Miracle (Or Even Crepes)

by roane



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hugs, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 14:04:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21016985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roane/pseuds/roane
Summary: "[F]or him, beheading was just an annoyance. It wasn’t simply an annoyance to the hundreds of humans who lost their lives while he was chained up."It turns out that maybe the crepes weren't worth it after all.





	Better Than a Miracle (Or Even Crepes)

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a request from [bethagain](https://bethagain.tumblr.com) on [this post](https://roane72.tumblr.com/post/188322507278/bethagain-fuckyeahisawthat-bethagain) for Crowley to get all the hugs.

Being in the Bastille was more unnerving than Aziraphale wanted to admit. Of course, for him, being beheaded would have been a tremendous inconvenience, little more. All that paperwork. Having to explain to the Quartermaster–cranky even on the best of days–how he managed to lose a body that had survived for nearly six thousand years. (He wouldn’t mention the crepes. That would just be asking for trouble.)

So for him, beheading was just an annoyance. It wasn’t simply an annoyance to the hundreds of humans who lost their lives while he was chained up. By the time they were led to the guillotine, Aziraphale knew each and every one of them. Some had led selfish, mean-spirited lives, but some had not. Some went up to Heaven, some went to Hell. Some died stoically, some died screaming or praying or cursing. None of them deserved the terror they experienced before their deaths. 

And thanks to Gabriel’s warning about miracles, there was nothing he could do to help any of them. He could agree that miracling himself free would be frivolous, but using some sort of miracle to stop this utter madness… surely that was the sort of thing miracles were for? But his orders were clear. He wasn’t to interfere. And not for the first time, he wondered what purpose it served, to let evil happen right in front of him.

Aziraphale was left to do what he always did in such situations: fret about himself. What else could he do? He quickly realized that talking the executioner out of a job was not going to work. He had just resigned himself to a thorough tongue-lashing from the Quartermaster when he heard a familiar, welcome (beloved?) voice.

"What the deuce are you doing locked up in the Bastille? I thought you were opening a book shop.”

_Crowley._

They fell into their usual surface banter, but Aziraphale couldn’t contain the utter relief in his soul. He couldn’t show it, of course, any more than Crowley could admit that he–likely (hopefully?)–came to France because he sensed Aziraphale was in trouble.

So they swanned off to lunch, and Aziraphale tried to keep wearing his usual _bon vivant_ face, but even the delectable French crepes couldn’t rouse his appetite. All he could think was how many people were dying, one at a time, while they sat there. He could hear the constant, metronomic thud of the guillotine, even though they were miles away and sound couldn’t possibly carry. Even his erstwhile executioner didn’t deserve that fate. 

“Angel, you came all this way for crepes, and you’re just letting them sit there?” Crowley looked at him with one eyebrow arched over his glasses. “Not as good as you remember?”

“Oh, no, they’re scrumptious. I just… don’t seem to have an appetite right now.”

Crowley didn’t say anything, but from the set of his lips, Aziraphale knew he was filing this away in some box likely labeled Strange Things About Angels. He wore that look when Aziraphale had surprised him, which was not often. 

“So,” Crowley said, opening a second bottle of wine, “tell me about this bookshop of yours.”

Haltingly, Aziraphale started to tell him about the beautiful building he’d found in Soho, and the more he talked, the more he warmed to the subject, unable to keep his enthusiasm hidden. Crowley listened and added the occasional sardonic observation, and Aziraphale felt… better. More normal.

They finished their meal, and for the first time Aziraphale wound up matching Crowley glass for glass of the excellent French wine–in fact, he consumed much more wine than crepe. 

It was Crowley who insisted on seeing his bookshop, and it was Crowley who miracled them (was it a miracle, really, if a demon did it?) back across the Channel to Soho. Aziraphale still felt the shadow of the Bastille on his heart, but it was more bearable here, showing off his new home to his… friend. 

“D'you think you have enough wards set, Angel? I was barely able to get through the front door.”

“Oh. Oh dear. I had intended to ward against demonic power, but I thought perhaps I’d left enough of a loophole for you, Crowley. I’ll refine that.” Aziraphale wasn’t entirely certain he could make that clear a distinction with his magic. After all, no matter his personal feelings, Crowley registered quite firmly as _demon_ in the magical scheme of things. But for Crowley he’d try. 

“There’s something else, too…” Crowley looked around the bookshop, his tongue flickering as if trying to scent whatever that something else was. His serpentine eyes went wide as he turned to Aziraphale. “_Angel._ You’ve warded against Heaven too.”

“Only a little,” Aziraphale said defensively. “Just to stop any… prying. I wanted someplace that was… mine. Without feeling like there were eyes on me.”

“Mm.” Crowley’s response was noncommittal, but Aziraphale would swear he saw tension twitch a notch higher in his lean frame. “You’ll want to be careful of that, Angel. Angels aren’t supposed to want privacy.”

Aziraphale put on a smile. “Well, they aren’t supposed to want crepes either, but here I am.”

“That isn’t why you went to France.”

“Yes,” he said firmly, “it is.” _Thud._ It still echoed in his head. _Thud._ Cheers and drums sounding. _Thud._

Crowley’s eyebrow made an appearance above his glasses again, but he didn’t press the point. “Well. I should go. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your customers. Have you worked out the best way to keep from selling to anyone yet?”

“Oh, you. Of course I’ll sell to some of them. Maybe." 

Crowley couldn’t leave. If he left, Aziraphale would be left with his thoughts. He’d be left with the constant thuds. "Crowley…”

Something must have showed on his face, because Crowley didn’t leave. “Angel?”

It hadn’t been safe for him to thank Crowley in the Bastille. But here, maybe… Aziraphale stepped forward before he could overthink it, and threw his arms around Crowley. At first, Crowley went rigid, and Aziraphale realized he’d made a terrible mistake. Before he could step back, Crowley’s arms tentatively went around him.

Aziraphale sagged. “Thank you. Thank you, Crowley. It was… I could hear them. I could feel all of them…:”

Crowley’s arms immediately tightened, catching Aziraphale as he sagged. “I know. I know, Angel.”

_He’s so good, and he’ll never let me tell him._

All Aziraphale could do was hang on and accept some of Crowley’s strength… and hope that maybe, someday, Crowley would realize just what that strength said about him.


End file.
